


calling a wolf a wolf

by Fruityloo



Series: like old times [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 20:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13302780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruityloo/pseuds/Fruityloo
Summary: “You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what I think.”





	calling a wolf a wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to S6E3, Uncontrolled Variables  
> Not edited/beta read/etc. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Title from Kaveh Akbar's book of poems, Calling a Wolf a Wolf .

“This?” Neal waves Keller’s knife in his face and shoves him into the kitchen counter. “None of _this_.” He practically hisses, not sure who he’s angriest with: Keller or himself. Because he might hate seeing Keller play the slimy tourist to his dashing knight, but he slipped into working with him like a pair of old jeans. Maybe not comfortable, but familiar, so familiar. They kissed on the dock and knew each other’s mouths like no time had passed, like they hadn’t changed at all.

He imagines turning the knife on Keller, feels his face twist with violence. Keller sees the violence in him, meets it with a smile; Neal wonders if he’s really the changed man he thinks himself to be.

“ _It?_   Jesus, Caffrey, you can’t even say the word.”

A dare.

“ _Violence_ ,” Neal spits, “You can’t accomplish anything worthwhile with a knife.”

Keller looks him up and down. “I can think of a few things.”

In a flash of movement he plucks the folded knife from Neal’s hand and opens it with an expert flick of the wrist. This is where self-preservation should kick in. The point where Neal steps back and puts distance between them. Instead, he holds ground; he’s never been afraid of Keller, and he’s not afraid now, even with the knifepoint balancing delicately on the first button of his shirt.

“Ain’t nothin’ more worthwhile than this.” The first button cuts from his shirt and falls to the floor with a sound like a starting gun. Neal surges forward. Kisses him, card, careless of the knife poised to his chest and if that’s trust, then so be it.

Buttons two and three clatter to the floor. Neal leans back, a scant inch, to speak. “This isn’t my shirt.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” The next two buttons go in one smooth cut.

“With what money?”

A dry puff of laughter fills the space between them. They’re destitute men with very short leashes, and all they can do is rage or laugh. Neal’s done both.

“I’ll steal you a new one then.”

The last buttons go without fanfare. Without pause Matthew comes back in to kiss; only the click of his knife folding back in on itself anchors Neal in reality. The reality that he’s kissing a man who’s proved he won’t flinch at choosing violence, that he prefers it; the reality that they’re kissing and he’s hard and Matthew’s hard and neither of them show sign of stopping. The smooth glide of his shirt falling to the floor sucks him back in again. Neal shoves their hips together, drives Matthew into the hard edge of the kitchen counter.

But this time Matthew pushes back. They stumble backward. Neal’s back meets the dining table with a gasp, sharp edge digging hard into the small of his back, and Matthew swallows it whole.

“Nice place you got,” Matthew sounds somewhere between mocking and jealous. Neal breathes in all his anger, all his envy, and lets it fuel the fire in his gut, in his hand, in his biting mouth. Matthew palms his front, tight grip just this side of painful, but it’s good. He moans, thrusts forward without thinking; he can’t remember being touched in any other way, doesn’t think anything short of painful would do it for him.

“Y’know what I think?”

Only Matthew Keller could manage conversational with his hand down another man’s pants. Neal braces himself on the table and leans back, stares at the ceiling and opens his mouth, maybe to answer. He’s not sure. Not sure of anything. Whatever he’s about to say, it clearly took too long, because Matthew goes on.

“You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what I think.” His hand retreats. A rustle of fabric, an absence of warmth; Neal glances down and finds Matthew sliding to his knees with a kind of serene, predatory grace. “Nice home and a sweet old landlady,” he unzips and yanks in one too-quick motion, presses an open-mouthed something to the front of Neal’s briefs. He whispers, hot breath on clothed cock, “But I know what you’re capable of. Conning that sweet girl.”

Guilt coils beside his arousal and right now he can’t tell the difference.

Matthew meets his eye and holds it, holds it and sinks down, swallows without pause. Neal chokes as Matthew strokes the underside of his cock with his tongue, an unwavering and heavy steady pressure. He leans back until it’s just the head, sucks around it, tongue prodding at the slit. No teeth. How is it that Matthew has the gentler touch between them? 

Neal doesn’t think about it. Instead he thrusts, anticipates Matthew’s choke, but not the way he barely flinches. Like he wants it, wants to choke on his cock. White arousal shocks down his spine, into his gut and burns there, stirs his guilt and violence and desire until it’s an unrecognizable cocktail of all three. He grabs Matthew by the hair and thrusts again. again. He doesn’t choke. He grabs Neal’s thighs and sinks down deeper. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, he’s close. Matthew hums low in his throat, so fucking _pleased_ with himself, and it’s so _much_ -

He yanks Matthew’s head back seconds before falling off the edge. He won’t, not yet, not unless he drags Matthew over with him.

“Bed.” He scarcely recognizes his own voice: low, shaky, full of promise; the dull edge of a sharp knife.

Already getting to his feet, Matthew grins at him, the grin of _all is according to plan_ . Whatever. Neal doesn’t care if Matthew conned him into a fuck, or that he knows him well enough to play on his violent impulse so expertly. He doesn't care. Doesn't care. 

They stumble to the bed. Matthew sheds his shirt on the way; his chest, all hard planes, all muscle bound tight. On his shoulder, a white mass of scar tissue the size of a quarter, ragged edges. Neal knows a bullet wound when he sees one, even one years healed. His mouth goes dry. Cock twitches.

And on his arm, the raised scar of a collar, the tracking chip. Neal suddenly realizes they’re both totally nude but nothing feels so filthy as the sight of that scar.

Matthew lounges in bed, propped up by his forearms without an ounce of self-consciousness. Men like them can’t afford it. He tracks Neal across the room, licks his lips when Neal steps out of his pants. He watches him like a mark, like he’s a threat and a score all in one.

“Gonna fuck me?” he urges. It works. “Can’t stand a little violence so you’re gonna let it out on me? Don’t worry, I can take it.”

That’s the thing about con men:

They read people.

“Don’t try and con me,” he warns, and kisses Matthew again.

“Ain’t a con, sweetheart,” he lifts his hips, shameless and eager, “Just conning yourself.”

Neal grabs the lube from his nightstand and starts with two fingers. Matthew contorts into a grimace; too much, too fast, and Neal knows it, but Matthew draws this out of him, conned it out of him. He can take it.

Almost as quickly, he relaxes. Grins with a sheen of sweat across his brow and goads, “Just two? Come on, Neal-”

He adds a third before realizing Matthew conned him again.

Matthew grips him by the back of his neck and pulls him down to kiss, forcing himself down on Neal’s fingers. It can’t possibly feel good, except it must do something, Because Neal’s stomach is wet from how Matthew leaks between them.

They kiss with teeth. Nails dig into the back of his neck and only with that bright spark of pain Neal realizes Matthew’s holding his neck with the chipped arm; the healing wound is hot against bare skin. Mind-numbing.

“That’s it,” he breathes hotly, licking the corner of Neal’s lips before he mouths along the line of his jaw, up to the shell of his ear, and bites.

“ _Fuck_ .” Neal’s fingers lose their rhythm. He preps Matthew quick, not enough, finds his prostate and presses hard against it just to watch his head flip back, just to hear him moan. Neal wants to _own_ it; he ducks his head down and bites the wide expanse of Matthew’s neck with intent to claim.

“Fuck, Neal, fuck, just-”

He spreads his fingers and whatever Matthew was about to say gets lots in his shout. Without pause he slips out his fingers, and doesn't give Matthew the time to miss them like Neal normally might. Like he might take this slow, make sure Matthew wants it bad. But he already knows Matthew wants him. Knows Matthew wants  _this_ : the quick shove of his hips, the burn of  _too much_.  They fall into stillness. There is only the the rise and fall of their chests and the flex of Neal’s hand on Matthew’s thigh as he waits.

Matthew may draw the worst out of him, the snapping dog. But there’s this too: Matthew shuddering beneath him, watching him with swollen lips, sweaty and a softer kind of vulnerable.

“So good.” It comes out on an exhale, barely aware he said anything at all.

Laughter, stuttering, choked, shaking on his cock. “‘Moment ago y’said the opposite.” Laughter but no mockery, no smug grin, just a too-clear gaze and a question in the angle of his head on Neal's pillow.

When he said it, he meant it. Still means it. The things Matthew does, his methods, they’re wrong; Matthew has no recognizable remorse and watching him makes Neal sick.

But beneath him Matthew is nothing but right.

“Gonna move now.” He doesn’t wait for acknowledgement before pulling out, slow drag to the head.

“Neal,” Matthew lifts his hips, twists them just _so_ and Neal slides back in without resistance. “On with it.”

So Neal snaps his hips. Matthew shouts, something stuck between _yes_ and _finally_ and _fuck_. Blood pounds so loud Neal barely hears himself think. Understanding Matthew is a current impossibility, so instead Neal lowers his head, forces himself deeper and kisses the sounds out of him. Swallows them whole and stores them safe inside his chest, owns them. Kisses his mouth, and when he’s full of sound he kisses Matthew’s jaw, his neck. Without looking Neal finds Matthew’s hand on the bed; their fingers brush, almost interlock but Matthew growls and instead Neal finds his fingers drifting further up smooth skin, sweat-slick and- and rough, a scar, the chip. Neal digs his fingers in.

“ _Yes_ ,” Matthew gasps, shocking them both, but he doesn’t bother covering for the drop in his guard. Neal digs his fingers in harder, and Matthews cock jumps, leaks and leaves a wet trail down his belly, trapped in the soft hair on his stomach.

Something like understanding roots in his chest: That maybe Matthew wants to be trapped and chipped and in pain, maybe he things he _deserves it_ \- Matthew whimpers and the thought dissolves with his next shuddering exhale.

Neal digs in harder. It reminds them both of Matthew’s position, brought down to Neal’s level, and Matthew clearly fucking loves it; loves being vulnerable and demeaned and _fuck fuck fuck-_

“Woods noticed the little bruise you left me,” Matthew says between thrusts, cutting Neal’s thoughts down until he sees only the bruise, a soft blue thing below his ear, three days old and fading. And the brighter bruise, still wet on the inside of his neck. “Saw how you looked at me. Probably knows we’re fucking.”

Fuck, that does things to him, it- Neal’s hips stutter, a hard thrust that has Matthew’s head arching back into the pillows, showing off his fresh hickey. Drags him to the edge. Neal gets a hand between them around Matthew’s cock and strokes to the pace of his thrusts: hard and without rhythm. Graceless.

It only takes one touch. Matthew tightens his legs around Neal’s waist, grabs  him by the neck and pulls him down. He kisses Neal through orgasm, open-mouthed and sloppy and then _teeth_ . He bites Neal’s lips as if to draw blood, as if he wants to _own_.

That spark of pain sends Neal following off the edge. They fuck through it. A flurry of sharp, short thrusts; Matthew meets each one until his gasps turn distinctly from pleasure to groans of over-sensitive pain.

Maybe Neal really is a wolf, because each hiss of discomfort blanks out his every thought. All that remains is simmering desire. He shivers and pulls out, terrified. 

“Thought we might be doing this again.” Matthew mouths the side of his jaw. Without thinking, Neal tilts his head to meet him. Sated, they kiss slow, almost tender. He rests a palm on Matthew’s cheek and strokes a thumb across sweat-slick skin. They could kiss like this for hours and Neal would be perfectly content. In the sweetness, he almost forgets who’s kissing him.

They lay side by side now, staring at each other in the dark. Bare arm touches bare arm, and somehow, it’s more intimate than fucking.  “Your way… It ain’t so bad,” Matthew fills the scant space between them with something heavy, “On occasion.”

 _Why don’t you act like it?_ He wants to ask, but doesn’t. Knows the answer, anyway. “If I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing, then what do I call you?”

He’s too sated, too full of post-coital haze to keep the note of hope from his voice. That Matthew’s answer might be different than what he knows it would be. That for once he might be wrong. For what it’s worth, Matthew doesn’t call him on the sudden emotion. They both know the answer, anyway.

“Call a wolf a wolf.”

It might be the lightning but there’s a softness to his face Neal can’t recall ever seeing there before.


End file.
